Abeyance
By Rebecca Faust letter to my transgender daughter I made soup tonight, with cabbage, chard and thyme picked outside our back door. For this moment the room is warm and light, and I can presume you safe somewhere. I know the night lives inside you. I know grave, sad errors were made, dividing you, and hiding you from you inside. I know a girl like you was knifed last week, another set aflame. I know I lack the words, or all the words I say are wrong. I know I’ll call and you won’t answer, and still I’ll call. I want to tell you you were loved with all I had, recklessly, and with abandon, loved the way the cabbage in my garden near-inverts itself, splayed to catch each last ray of sun. And how the feeling furling-in only makes the heart more dense and green. Tonight it seems like something one could bear. Guess what, Dad and I finally figured out Pandora, and after all those years of silence, our old music fills the air. It fills the air, and somehow, here